The Raja of Bobbili was celebrating his son’s wedding. At his personal request Mallika was giving one of her rare performances at the Amethyst Palace.
Mallika had a long generous face. Her cheeks would have been flat and sagged had they not been molded over a spectacular bone structure that made her face a wide canvas for all the emotions she brought into it. Here she was, a maiden with downcast eyes over those high cheeks, longing for her Paramour from the Seven Hills.
From the wings where she stood Sowmya saw melancholy in the way Mallika moved that day. The sight of the anti-dance protestors at the entrance wore her out. And now, dressed in her dance finery, she reminded Sowmya of the gold necklaces and silver waist-belts lying in pawnshop glass cases. Heaped in piles, their previous glory as ornaments lost, they seemed sad and diminished. Something terrible was certainly being lost in all these protests over dance and dancers. It was slipping through her fingers even as she watched Mallika dance, and urgency welled on her skin like pinpricks. She needed to hold on to this beauty before it got completely erased. She continued to clap long after the applause had died when Mallika finished her performance.
Later when Mallika was in the green room letting a photographer from an art journal take pictures, a man appeared at the door. Sowmya saw him shuffling behind a throng of people at the door waiting to see Mallika. He looked slightly abashed holding a bouquet, a man unaccustomed to waiting patiently at the back of anywhere. He was dressed in crisp, white clothes. His forehead shone like a mirror. About thirty, she figured, and pleasing to look at.
When he turned slightly and she got a better look, Sowmya recognized him as Satya, the owner of the Madana Theater Group. It had been bleeding cash when Satya bailed the company out of bankruptcy. Many of the leading artists were leaving the theater for the cinema production companies to work as actors and playback singers. He persuaded Kitappa to stay on as the director, brought artists in from the districts, hired musicians in the city. The company floundered a bit and had just barely begun to break even.
She worked her way to the door. He was startled when she touched his arm to draw his attention. She brought him to Mallika.
“Satya!” Mallika said as he approached. He gave her the bouquet and said something to her. They talked for a short while. Then as the fans started pressing into the room, he left.
She had quite forgotten about that incident until Kitappa mentioned his name a few days later. He was expecting Satya that morning, he said, when Sowmya began her dance practice in the back terrace. Satya had bought some recording equipment from an American who was going back to his country. He planned to set up a sound studio in Madras and produce playback for the talkies. He had wangled a job for Kitappa as well, a collaboration with the music director for the movie, Rangoon Rani. Kitappa was very excited and was anxiously waiting, and when Satya arrived they worked in the front porch for most of the morning.
Sowmya was working on a new movement to capture a certain line in a song, followed by the execution of a complex series of steps. She was missing the timing and the series just would not come together. It was a hot morning. She was streaming with sweat. The hair she had braided and pulled into a knot was coming undone as she did a double twist. When she unwound she ran straight into Satya, holding the symbol for lotus pointed at him. A stream of sweat trickled down her back. Satya stood rooted to the spot, holding aside the curtain of glass beads.
Her form collapsed. She placed her hands on her hips and looked at him.
“Who taught you to dance like that?”
Sowmya swiped her wrist across her forehead and shook it. Her dance lessons were kept quiet, not many people knew about it.
Kitappa came out, squeezing past Satya. He looked pained and uncomfortable.
“Our . . . niece,” he said. “From back home.”
Sowmya gathered her hair and pulled it into a knot. Why can’t he leave so she can get back to her practice? She smoothed the strands of hair and tucked them behind her ears, wiped her hot face on her sleeve.
“Come in, Satya!” Mallika called. She was sitting on the washing platform. “Sowmya, go get a chair, will you?”
Kitappa had already brought one and Satya sat down across form Mallika.
“Please,” Satya said, signaling with his hand. “Continue.”
Mallika smiled, but said nothing.
After a minute Satya asked, “How long has she been training?”
“She doesn’t perform for the public,” Kitappa said. “This is just, she was just . . .”
Satya turned around as if to see who was behind him.
“It’s just me, there is no public. Please, please continue.”
Sowmya’s legs got very heavy, the cement floor hardened beneath her feet. This was precisely how the men must have arrived in the house in Nellyappan Street, at the legendary Krishnaveni’s house. How easily Satya had walked in here, into their private space, and asked to see her dance? She did not think she could refuse, as if the dance belonged to others, to Satya. From the pit of her stomach she felt a “No!” rise. And yet, with a realization that shook her, her limbs wanted to dance for him, to this alluring power he possessed to command like a god. She wanted to watch every movement he made.
Satya leaned forward in his chair. “You have a protégé Mallika, worthy enough to follow your footsteps . . .”
How long had he been watching her dance?
“God’s grace. She’s gifted,” Mallika said.
Satya smiled at Mallika. The tap near the well dripped water. When Satya looked at Sowmya, she could not lift her eyes and look him fully in the face.
“We can create great opportunities with such talent,” he said without taking his eyes off her.
“Indeed.”
“Arrange a debut.”
“She should be so fortunate. But she does not wish to perform.” Mallika said, and looked at Kitappa who was stone faced.
Satya leaned back and sat quietly.
“If this city sees her dance,” he said, his voice now very soft, “if they see her, all this nonsense going on now? All that will stop. Look at the teacher she has. Your name draws crowds, even with the clowns at the gate. Such talent should not be hidden. It’s God’s gift, meant to be shared.”
His voice was low, soothing. He would bring the world to her feet. Until now Sowmya had not dared to hope about performing on stage. But now she saw herself under the shiny lights, facing an audience. She felt a thrill.
“They never objected to our dance,” Mallika said. “It is us they would like to simply do away with.” She tossed a newspaper near him. There was an article that day about the anti-dance movement.
He gently shoved the paper aside. “Anti-dance. What is that? Don’t pay attention to these people. It is not about the dance, it is not about you. Listen to me. It is about who gets the money, it always is. You know that, nothing new I need to tell you.”
Satya, himself an attorney, had arranged for a friend in Thanjavur to file a suit against the trustees of the temple on behalf of Mallika, to claim her property back. The tradition of daughters inheriting all the property had angered the men of the dance community, and a political party had even taken that as one of its platforms—to outlaw the waiver of the Hindu inheritance law for devadasis. They even managed to argue that this discriminated against the women.
Satya drew a cigarette case from his shirt pocket – slim and golden. He flicked it open, drew a cigarette out and tapped it on the lid.
“I know the crowd at the Cosmopolitan Club,” he said. “I know the important people in the city, I know their businesses. I plead their cases in court. I know council members. You take care of things,” he waved his cigarette in the direction of Sowmya. “Your niece. Get her ready and leave the rest to me.”
“Oh? Someone you know with a silver plate in her hand to invite Sowmya?”
Satya rose up. “Get her ready. The invitation will come.”